This was easily the worst he’s ever felt.

He had ran to the plane bathroom at least twice, hunched over the sink as a cold sweat formed on his skin. After minutes of taking in and releasing shaky breaths, he settled his stomach enough to join the team back in their seats before the plane landed.

He spent the car ride to the precinct tight-lipped with his fist covering his mouth, head turned away to jot arouse unneeded worry or suspicious despite the nagging churning in his stomach.

With a few bewildered stares from his colleagues, he darted for the bathroom after stepping foot into New York’s precinct. He heaved over the sink, gasps and pants escaping as he clutched onto the porcelain of the sink. He shut his eyes, blinded by the fluorescent lights hung over the mirrors. His knees weakened until most of his weight was reliant on his hands supporting himself on the sink.

He stumbled into one of the stalls, kneeled over the toilet. After emptying the contents of his stomach into the bowl, he slumped against the stall wall, ragged breaths filling the space, mixing with the faint humming of the lights above.

He heard the door creak open and he forced himself to start to sit up before slumping back down, a wave of nausea down-pouring on him. He tucked his knees towards his chest, hiding his face into his slacks. A few quiet tears slipped from his eyes, overwhelmed by the twisting in his gut.

He tensed as the click of footsteps against the tile paced farther into the bathroom. He hurriedly wiped his eyes, trying to revive the last of his dignity. He froze all together when he heard your voice speak his name, already able to hear the worry lacing your voice.

“{{user}}?” he asked weakly, his voice hoarse with the sickness bubbling in his throat. “What’re you doing in here?”